thlachesis

[thlachesis]

Héléne kept his eye in the same way she came to treasure the glimmer of the jewels passed down to her from her mother’s hand — in one flicker of an eyelash she came to understand how he stood and banished all that had loomed around him like flies circling a carcass. Perhaps, if she were someone else entirely, she would’ve doubted his admiration — his eye that seemed rich with decadence and thick heavenly strokes, appealed to Héléne whom had never grown tired of the waxing desire of men (and women) she did not know. And with such pride, her hubris pouring from her in the way water sprung from a fresh well, Héléne drew closer, taking her cup to her lips as the dark shade of her gaze pierced into his. If this was a challenge, or simply easy pickings, she decided that she’d take it. 

“I shall not fall for you, bard — I do not fall, if anything, you will find yourself suddenly without land, suddenly adrift in want of me. But, it is true that you speak as if honey sweetens your tongue. Is it true, then? Do you taste of it?” Héléne asked with the tilt of her chin, the soft tip of her tongue poking between her lips in anticipation before her mouth snarled into a gluttonous grin. Indeed, she had no desire to become a damsel in distress; for in moments he seemed to have unwrapped her, exposing truths that left her core exposed. Still, he hadn’t done that good of a job, and so she remained curated, her finger rising to play with the cross that hung on a chain. “As Queen of the Amazons? Oh, but I am no actress… Though to be your muse would not be the least of ambition — perhaps you could read me something, for I am not so well versed. If I remember correctly, Achilles sent his spear into Hippolyta before falling dreadfully in love. Is that how you see me, Bard?”

 She mighty be nine and twenty, or thirty -- but was as blooming and buxom as a girl of twenty. All other women in the wake of Héléne, were so hard, loud and vain -- her body alone, was alluring imperishable. William felt he was on the brink of penetrating a romantic, and imprudent match; she danced off headless and lightsome. Perhaps she was more good-natured than he thought -- but what would make her love a man such as he, who was as rich as a barrel of spirits? "I seek only to serve you -- if that shall be in song, so be it. If music be the food of love, play on. Give me excess of it."  William's feelings of love were kept in check by anxiety laying in wait; rejection, crouched like a tiger in the jungle. His fierce heart panted closely to hers -- she, his huntress, was ravenous. Perfectly adept in the English language, her voice was so cordial to him; light and placating, it would remain with him long after.  He did not yet know what harmony pervaded Héléne's person -- her outline bespoke some benevolence, softness tinged with stern markers. 

"Do you believe me to be a jewel, my lady? Seasoned or an ingenue; what's a man to do? A diamond, is bound to shine."  Héléne's dark silk dress fitted her in such a manner, as only a French sempstress can make a dress fit; the form hinted beneath layers of fabric, kindled in his heart a warm glow of tenderness. William was deeply pleased by her superior intelligence, with the dignity and delicacy that held her chin, so loftily high in the air. Whatever ruinous consequences lay in proximity to her bed, he would make no complaint. "I claim one thing as mine in this world, and that is my work; I am lord and master of all I create. Deride my work, adore it -- it is mine, so wholly mine. Sweet Héléne, you are what I have long desired to complete my newest play; but a maiden? A damsel? Could you believe me to be so naive, as to cast you as a feeble member of your sex? For you, are Hippolyta; Queen of the Amazons." 

[thlachesis]

The attention of royal blood was nothing new to a woman who had spent most of her days dancing before the Kings and heirs of the Kingdom of France — this other, the Prince of Asturias and heir of Spain was no different, then. And with the tug of a smirk planted upon the corner of her mouth, Héléne stood with confidence, her chin tilted towards him as if she were in possession of something precious to the Prince, as if she knew something he didn’t. Of course, Hélene had little grip on the truth that remained around the royalty of Spain, for she had only and truly been sent to either coax a true report on how he would be as a husband to Caterina’s most beloved daughter… Or, to put it simply, to lie with him in some vain excuse to exclaim his loyalty. Still, Héléne enjoyed a challenge, and as such she pushed her chest forth to elongate her neck, to release the dotted pulse points of her body that had been smothered in jasmine perfumes upon her rise to the height of her late mother.

With a smile, she eyed the Prince with charge, for he could not be so blind to think the sudden attraction and attention a coincidence, could he? As her eyes thus sparkled with unbridled delight, Héléne drew forth, picking at her skirts to make room for her satin tipped feet, the slight heel at the case clicking against the varnished wooden floors. “You have not insulted the Princess yet, your Grace. And I would hope that it remains that way — or else you would have the Serpent at your side,” she warned, mentioning the Lady Mother and Dowager, who reigned over the country instead for her son who remained ill and frail. Joining his side, eyeing him from the corner of her gaze, Héléne sought a triumph in his presence, and so fluttered her eyelashes as if sharing a secret through the flicker of one motion. “And what is it that you hunger for? I would be glad to be of service to one so admired by the House of Valois.”

cautious  was  not  a  word  that  one  might  use  to  describe  the  prince  of  asturias  ─  at  least,  not  at  first.  the  choices  that  he  had  made  in  life  seemed  to  prove  the  opposite,  rather,  marking  him  as  reckless  and  licentious  for  the  bastards  that  had  been  fathered  upon  his  mistress  but  felipe  preferred  to  consider  himself  as  a  man  of  many  facets  even  if  some  sides  to  him  were  kept  concealed,  downplayed  to  ensure  that  he  appeared  humble  and  satisfied  with  his  role  in  life  even  as  he  actively  prepared  for  kingship  and  kept  to  the  faith  with  the  devotion  of  an  anointed  priest.  still,  even  if  he  were  not  the  sort  to  keep  vigilant  over  those  who  approached  (  like  many  princes,  he  had  men  for  such  trivial  things  ),  the  increased  french  interest  in  his  person  was  near - impossible  to  ignore,  their  dark  eyes  watching  his  every  movement  and  their  thickened  tongues  whispering  in  rapid,  regional  dialects.  most  of  the  women  seemed  to  be  ladies  of  either  the  princess  or  the  regent  of  france  (  for  that  was  what  caterina  de  medici  was  ),  seemingly  sent  on  an  errand  to  decide  if  the  prince  of  asturias  was  worthy  of  the  greatest  jewel  in  the  french  crown,  so  it  was  with  a  raised  brow  that  he  greeted  the  woman  before  him,  flicking  his  gaze  towards  his  companions  to  send  them  scattering  as  she  bowed.

following  the  line  of  her  slender  throat  to  the  cut  of  her  neckline,  fitted  against  the  swell  of  her  chest,  felipe  raised  his  gaze  slowly,  purposefully,  to  offer  her  a  warm  smile  ─  perhaps  it  was  a  test  to  see  if  his  eyes  would  fall  to  the  offered  flesh  on  display,  supposedly  by  natural  accident,  but  he  was  not  like  other  men,  allowed  his  vices  so  long  as  it  did  not  harm  and  there  was  no  insult  to  be  perceived  in  his  gaze  or  in  the  hand  that  he  extended  towards  the  lady,  inviting  her  to  join  his  foray  of  the  halls  of  hampton.  ❝  lady  d'halluin  ...  please  rise.  i  am  glad  to  receive  you  today  though  i  must  confess  to  being  perplexed  by  the  growing  attention  i  have  since  received  from  your  fellow  countrymen  after  but  a  few  conversations  with  the  princess  elisabeth.  will  you  enlighten  me  to  the  truth  or  have  i  unexpectedly  caused  insult  against  her  majesty,  the  princess  ?  ❞  while  he  had  been  unappreciative  of  the  attempts  to  push  them  together,  felipe  had  not  been  disappointed  by  elisabeth  de  valois  in  body  or  in  mind,  though  he  would  not  confess  to  having  grown  fond  of  her  to  anyone  but  his  companions.  ❝  come,  walk  with  me  as  i  search  for  something  to  slake  my  hunger.  ❞

[thlachesis]

Héléne presented herself in her sheer, almost tempestuous, gown — leaning into him as if he were her playmate, her lover tied to the skin of her breast. Unlike the foolish, coy nature of the Englishwomen, Héléne had no quarry in acting as such, even if he were brought in union to a royal courtier — a Grey, a woman thrown to the wolves in the lady’s eye, someone straddling purgatory before judgement day. And though the words that slipped past his lips were nothing short of the tune once spoken by a man totally, and utterly in love with someone else, Héléne offered a familial smile, despite the need to tuck beneath the surface, to find out what else could drip from such well tuned lips. “A compliment delights even Helen of Troy, that is sure,” she replied, nodding towards the person in question, a Percy she did not know. With a sigh, the French maid of honour slid against the wall, her back pressed against the cool stone with her hands held by her side, her dark piercing gaze attached to him, as if to insure a true honesty. “Monsieur, yes and no. You see, I have done my research… as have you, it seems,” Hélene spun, keeping his gaze for just a moment before she looked across the heads of merriment, her tongue then pressed against her inner cheek. “You know more than I, my Lord. This Iberian celebration, this need for costume. Do you think it hides something sinful?” She asked, a smirk barely lifting the corner of her mouth, a slick wink flickered from one eye. 

"Ariadne! Have you come to be my guide?" Héléne’s approach was with the sweeping, fluid, gliding step of each heavenly body that eve; blooming with exuberance, as to eclipse the person who last came. Speaking with a sweet smile, her attire was pretty to behold -- bare-headed she came upon him, her dark hair brazenly curled and displayed. Nicholas desired his company to be neither damping, nor insignificant; a glow of good feeling passed perfectly upon his cheek, warmed still by a kissed place by Pippa, hours past.  "I am no hallmark of great beauty, though I imagine it is quite a burden -- do you grow weary of compliments, or do they still delight you? I am blessed at least, by the warmth of my bride's love; a Grey sister, through and through. Be honest and we shall be friends -- do I wear my title stamped across my forehead, or have one of my bride's sisters, sewn a sign to my back? Regardless, dear lady, I know you - who else, but the mystical, Héléne d'Halluin?" 

[thlachesis]

Héléne knew she tested the longevity of her status in that riled English court by donning the air of the bard, but he had asked her so sweetly that Héléne had felt little cause to reject it. With quiet glee she accepted the proposition before arranging an almost-historically appropriate affair of linens, the material barely covered the swell of her breasts, the translucent affair of thin cloth coating her belly and thighs in a way that would’ve seemed more likely to be a night gown than a dress for a pageant. In France, she had worn a similar piece at Caterina’s court, where they plucked chestnuts from the floor and danced whilst sipping Ancient wines — she felt, when baring her skin for all to see, almost as if shes were home. 

She arranged two cups for herself and Dionysus, the liquid spilling over the rim and onto her fingers to stain her skin a berry-red, her lips curled with amusement as she pushed one into Shakespeare’s chest. “Find your treasure in the centre of my maze, Dionysus, and rub the ruby red — drink, make merry, if you can overlook the heat of my wetness,” Héléne hissed back, staring into the dark, bottomless hue of his eyes that seemed almost as tempting as the labyrinth itself. “I shall not bed you before all these people, I am no courtesan. If anything, I am high and mighty, and you must get to your knees in serving prayer,” she continued, pulling herself from him with proud laughter — her spare hand slack against his chest as she pushed away, before taking a greedy gulp from her own glass. “You look well, you look nice. That, you should accept.”

for: @thlachesis

location: simpland

   Again,  Héléne was the belle -- the fairest and loveliest present. How he loved how she danced; very gracefully, and how joyously she smiled. William's lady love lived her life in a ballroom; elsewhere, she was lifeless. William would always have his way and do as he pleased -- he too, saw his butterfly wings expanded, lit up with gold, at a splendid night. For Héléne never permitted him to feel dull; her presence furnished every event, with a pique of her own devising. There was a handsome, admirable look about her, which redeemed her youth -- and expedited ones reception, of her beauty.  She was so pretty and golden, as trim as a doll -- so nicely dressed, so wholly undressed, so nicely curled --  Héléne was charming, indeed. On her hair, William doted; even he, a man of words, lacked language to describe such exquisite perfection.

Her well proportioned figure was never to be hidden in assemblage; taking her hands from another's, he made her his own. "I shall speak low, and speak love. Hear my heart speak -- the instant I saw you this night, my heart flew to your service dear Ariadne; what am I do to? There is such beggary in love; but I fear it shall never be reckoned with my renown. If I am to be yours for but a night, shall we make it worth Cupids time?" That night, he was beyond himself -- venturing beyond what William believed as his natural habits. If music would be the fodder for love; then let it play on. His sweet seraph; a little cruel, a little severe -- she would not allow him to forget her. William brought his arms round her; it did not merely touch, or gently stroke. He embraced her openly, and searched her eyes for doubt -- as if that was why she had denied him for so long. "A labyrinthine man never seeks the truth, but only his Ariadne. Will you have me now, Ariadne? Amongst a crowd?"

[thlachesis]

Héléne’s approach was sudden and without warning, her eyes trained upon a fellow she neither knew or really thought to take true notice off. Still, she felt drawn to him, and when donned in something so flamboyant and decadent as her outfit for Ariadne, she ignored the call of her match that evening to meet a man who stood beneath the canopy of Greys, Seymours and Percys. Whether they all sung to the tune of the Tudors, Protestantism or Catholicism, Héléne didn’t think to truly care, and instead approached with a wavering smirk, her hand quickly touched upon his arm. “Adonis — am I right?” She asked, removing her hand Héléne adjusted the fall of her hair, a single finger then hooked around the head of the Minotaur that lay against her chest in signal for Ariadne’s greatest betrayal. “You wear it well, but I am sure a great manner of ladies have sweetened words for you, so I will reserve them. You are… hmm, let me think. You stand beside the Grey sisters with such pride, and so you must be the Duke of Suffolk! Am I right?” @nicholasdsutton

[thlachesis]

The corner of her mouth pricked upwards with unconcerned pride — ah, so that was how he had earned his place at court, with buttered charm and sticky honey. Still, she didn’t refuse it, for had she not done the same? Holding her hands against her belly, Héléne kept his gaze, refusing to act modest or coy before a man who had certainly (or, most probably) kept his own share of secret affairs — for she embodied her secrets as weapons, her hands set wide in display, the throb of her heat unapologetic in its direct approach. Running her tongue against the plump petal of her lower lip, Héléne broke the crowd around the bard, her head then pushed to one side as she looked at him, as if she were wondering if he were fat enough to eat. “You charming troubadour, perhaps I ought to ask for a song?” She proposed, her eyes twinkling towards him before she seemed to bat the onlookers aside, the drop of her skirts brushing against varnished wood as she grew closer, her hand extended only to take a cup. 

“So you are no newcomer to the Court but instead a well acquainted crown jewel?” She asked, her interest piqued — though her education she had been raised among the flourish of curled tongues and trained fingers, Héléne had spent her time dancing rather than listening, her intention set on gathering selected attention rather than enjoying the moment itself. So, if he thought her an art lover or a virtuoso, he was wrong and quite against her usual sort of conquest — but there was a first for everything; and he was awfully handsome. So, she admired him without hesitation, her lips tugged into a smirk. “Do you write your own, or simply perform what others have trickled from their fingertips? If you would base my person into a character of your own, what would it resemble? A fae? A damsel in distress? An Amazon hunting its prey? Do tell… Oh. And, you may call me Héléne.”

 Héléne joined his circle - rather, one would say she broke it up; for her arrival made a bustle, for he wished to quickly receive her as an old acquaintance. She was a handsome, faithless-looking youth of nearly thirty; faithless not in her disposition, but in the epithet's use to describe her fair, French character of good looks. Her waved light dark hair, her supple symmetry; her smile frequent, destitute of neither subtly nor fascination. In the persons surrounding them, there was a fragile sense of beauty; an entire incapacity to endure. For Héléne, beauty would not sour in adversity -- rather, it would bloom. "My lady." William began, after eyeing the little figure him with good measure -- removed of any half-laughing bashfulness which he believed to be timidity- a spoiled, whimsical boy, was Shakespeare these days. "If the rumour is in relation to your arrival, how could I contest such a thing?" William met those of his own and those of the opposite sex, with a rapt earnest gaze; employed to assure of his power to strike and attract. 

 She was a woman of good fortune, accustomed to residency in lavish residences; William knew Héléne would drive him beyond his point of reckoning. She pursued cooling as he warmed -- William was offered a challenge of strength between opposing gifts offered in the acquisition of her good opinion. Eyes full of insolent light, brows as hard and unblushing as marble;  he desired to call home, eyes that threatened stormy weather. "The Tudor King's court has offered me many pleasures, but none as biting and wonderful, as the gift of your acquaintance - I would regard you as dismissive of thespians, if the fine breasts beneath your shift, did not not beat with entirely French faculties. For whom amongst us, if not those of your motherland, worship art and love so dearly?" He had never seen such eyes in all of England; temptation lined itself in every one of her traits. Héléne was handsome in her ball attire; but she would never look so pretty as she would undressed, twisted beneath sheets. It was cruel now, that she denied him a ray of her penetrating eyes; how his heart palpitated with delight, when she acquiesced.

[thlachesis]

It had been a lucky guess, a drawn arrow plucked into the midnight mass of secrets that emerged from innocent lips in waves of succulent gossip. But her reserved modesty seemed to rub against Héléne’s efforts of seduction, her eyes then narrowed with an annoyance that only coloured the maid of honour as stubborn as she had been rumoured to be. Still, she put on a smile, tilting her head to one side as Lady Percy looked around the room in some lost dream, a goal thus misplaced, a target already passed. Love, it seemed, made anyone do such reckless things — or so, that was yet another assumption, for what else would confuse a girl as intelligent looking as she but the matter of the heart? Héléne had never been so close to the affairs, however, for having her heart broken by the death of her father and then her mother in quick succession, she thought only to hold her heart at arm’s length, to keep a great manner of emotions then deep beneath the surface. 

“Oh, I am glad to see that you are feeling well enough to join us then, my Lady,” she added with haste, before taking a cup of wine for herself — a jar of water then presented in the other hand to slip against the table, her body joining the other’s despite the lack of invitation. And though Héléne did not mean to test the friendliness of the girl in question, it was as if there was something poked out from beyond the precipice, something important looming in the background. With a smile, she poured the water, her eyes then dropping to concentrate instead. “Alnwick, is that where you grew up?” She asked, deciding on perhaps a different tactic. 

sibella  passed  through  the  great  hall  with  an  inquisitive  eye,  recalling  a  smaller  number  of  courtiers  prior  to  her  return  than  the  crowd  present  at  the  feast.  a  scan  of  the  room  quickly  made  it  clear  that  there  were  nearly  as  many  spanish  and  french  courtiers  as  there  were  english.  vaguely  familiar  faces  peppered  the  hall  and  the  sweet  sound  of  the  continental  languages  titillated  her  eardrums.  she  would  have  been  eager  to  sink  her  teeth  in  a  foreign  conversation  if  her  mind  were  not  otherwise  occupied.  cerulean  eyes  once-overed  the  sea  of  people,  searching  for  the  face  that  she  had  since  committed  to  blessed  memory.

instead  before  her  she  found  lady  héléne,  a  figure  with  whom  she'd  be  completely  unfamiliar  if  it  were  not  for  her  travels.  her  brief  months  at  the  french  court  were  hardly  spent  in  any  proximity  to  the  serpent  queen  and  her  household  of  vipers.  yet,  it  was  no  secret  how  they  slithered;  no  amount  of  resplendent  fashions  could  disguise  their  scales.  "alas,  i  am  not  very  easily  tempted,"  sibella  replies  politely.  her  hand  enclosed  over  a  glass  of  the  plainest  ale,  she  raises  it  to  her  eyeline,  as  if  toasting  to  their  acquaintance.

"even  if  i  were,  my  doctor  has  recommended  only  ale  as  i  recover  from  a  recent  malady.  what  you  have  heard  —  though  i  cannot  imagine  from  whom  —  is  an  inaccurate  folly."  she  gritted  her  teeth  and  pushed  the  lie  through  the  slim  gaps.  "if  i  were  not  a  horrid  liar  and  an  adherent  to  the  truth  i  would  claim  the  story,  as  it  does  illuminate  my  modest  talents.  in  complete  truth  i  was  indisposed  and  away  at  my  family's  home  in  alnwick.  it  is  a  mere  coincidence  that  my  absence  concurred  with  that  of  the  king's  council."  

[thlachesis]

Héléne thought to entertain the German, who lingered with an innocence barely witnessed among courtiers who lingered around the hems of Caterina de Medici. All in all, she thought, what use could a girl of such a quality be? Perhaps she would become a fine ally to England in a way of marriage, or some mistress-en-titre if William was more versed with the language of love that his father had been amiss to. Folding one hand over the other against her belly, Héléne smiled and practised her kindest gaze, a look rarely witnessed upon such a preoccupied visage, the twitch of her smile pulling at the corner of her lips. She was right, in some way, that the English seemed obnoxious to any culture or habit not of their own, and in some manner she couldn’t help but allow a bubble of laughter to grow at the back of her throat, her hand then waved before her face in some manner to dismiss it. “Lady Elisabeth, Lady Sisi, it is a pleasure… I am Lady de Limeuil, my Lady. Héléne, if you will… Would you walk with me?”

ELISABETH HAD NOT BEEN paying attention. Her finger trailed the rim of her glass, brown eyes examining the decor around her. Odd. English sensibilities were quite different than those of Cleves, she made a mental note of all the differences she could find in the single room. This took up her mind, barely even noticing the woman until she had spoken to her. For a moment, the woman looked lost, trying to figure out what the other was saying to her. Though Sisi eventually figured it out. "Thank you, My Lady," Sisi hummed, a small, polite smile tugged at her lips. "Foreign fashions often are not to English sensibilities, especially those of our monarch's courts," Elisabeth commented. The Germans were always quite extravagant, second only to the French or those of Italy. "They often find what they like and discard the rest." She shrugged, bringing the glass to her lips. "And yes, I have heard of your mistress. Her Grace Queen Caterina is an enigmatic yet gracious queen, and please, call my Lady Elisabeth or Lady Sisi. What might you wish to be called, Lady?"

[thlachesis]

HÉLÉNE D'HALLUIN as ARIADNE

The consort of Dionysus, the unclaimed hero of Theseus and the Minotaur, Goddess of labyrinths and paths.

There was, in reality, little logic why a maid-of-honour to Caterina de Medici was paired alongside the newest star of the English Court, William Shakespeare. But, there was no denying that they attended the celebration as the hedonistic couple of Greek poetry; Dionysus and his consort, Ariadne. Having rumoured to once shared a bed with the late King of France, the innocence of her marriage and child then put into question upon French soil, there was no denying that Héléne chased the thrill of life to its very end. The same, some would say, could be said for Ariadne; who had betrayed her family for a man who'd later leave her stranded before Dionysus plucked her from obscurity to become a Goddess of her own doing.

Her costume almost matches her sister's in obscenities, her neckline cuts against the swell of her breast, a peach-tinted dress embracing her body where it rises and falls. Red thread, imitating the red string that lead Theseus to the Minotaur, catches around her skirts and bodice, rubies borrowed from the French Queen worn upon a single finger - a locket molded to the shape of a bull, or in this case the Minotaur itself, worn around her throat which presses against the chain. She dances the night away after performing a Cretan traditional routine to honour Ariadne herself when in league with the other procession of talented women. That night, perhaps, was a very scene taken from a Shakespearean play.

[thlachesis]

Her fingers dipped beneath the surface of herb infused waters, coating them with the lacquer of that splendid bath in the same way a lover would poke the flush centre of a blushing maiden. As Madeleine remained soaked, her eyelashes an enchanting feature to anyone else, Héléne could not help the tease that passed by her lips — but there had been no pleasure sought with the old King of France, the venture itself had been more of a test to sway the attentions of a man caught in a fever for older women. The babe, sent to another town to be loved, had been but a side effect cast to the waste in order for Héléne’s triumphant return. It had been the splendour, however, of lying with le Roi de France that had meant the most to her prestige, that had secured her position as loyal, desirous and worth the temptation itself. Her marriage had been yet one more move against the chess board, her son but an afterthought — and it was to Héléne’s good fortune that both had died before making much of a stain upon her heart. Sometimes, she thought to herself, it seemed that she had lived multiple lives whilst her sister frolicked to the same tune as ever. 

She sniggered then, removing her hand to wrap themselves against the iron rim of the tub, her eyes sparkled towards Madeleine with a girlish want of praise. “The court of the hunchbacks, that sounds about right,” she echoed, her lips picked up into a merry grin before she proposed the thought of laying with the King himself, if only to add to her repertoire. “A second King, a bard to write a play in my visage, a councilman for influence and perhaps the Infante for politics's sake. You are right, then, he deserves to be kept on fertile French soil,” Héléne laughed, throwing her head back to release her dark hair that cascaded down her back in waves, her wrist thus caught in her sister’s grip. “But what of you? Surely you must do the same, as de Limeuil it is our duty to act before la Reine Serpent,” she hushed, leaning forth to press a kiss to her sister’s brow before picking herself up to wander towards the toilette, to press her pulses with ointments, her hair growing maddened by the humidity of the room itself. “Rumour has it that a Percy will marry the English King, but do you think the boy prefers cunt to cock?” She asked absently, already too swayed to her own reflection in the awaiting mirror. 

Decadent and desirous were the maids of Queen Catherine’s household, and so unlike their English counterparts in the extreme – those mild-mannered, lily-livered ladies of King William’s court, rosy-cheeked and nauseatingly polite, restrained in dignity under the Dowager’s bony thumb.  It was neither the product of err nor happenstance that Madeleine and sister Héléne – though it was not blood that fused them as one – were cherry-picked by the serpent Queen herself, called forth to serve and take pride of place in the most glamorous court of all Europe, for in a crowd of hundreds of mademoiselles, the de Limeuil sisters stood among the loveliest, the merriest, the most infamous.  Madeleine trained her gaze on Héléne’s lithe figure, liquid as she swept across the room and perched herself on the rim of the iron-wrought tub, which Madeleine herself gripped with the ivory palm of her hand.  Her bright-caramel eyes shone with mirth, thickly rimmed with eyelashes that dripped with pearls of bathwater – glimmering like the welter of jewels stashed in their skirts – as she batted her eyes at Héléne. 

‘Oh, sister mine,’ Madeleine gently cooed, her temperament far more predisposed to company than Héléne’s.  With ease could the younger sister feign amusement, where the elder wore her ire slashed across the silken ribbons of her sleeve; only in the company of their royal mistress could she tighten her lips and lower her gaze in deference.  ‘It is ironic that the English think us so indulgent, when it is them – their men – who cannot keep their mouths clear of meat and drink long enough to hold a conversation.  They hardly stop to swallow before speaking.  Must be only a matter of time–’ the lady’s voice dripped to a velvet purr, ‘before the King resembles his father, black-toothed and gout-addled and hunkering about like an old dog. Half the court will become hunchbacked from carrying him around.’   

Madeleine’s posture uncurled as Héléne's lips whispered of an affair – illicit enthuse splashed across the heart-shape of her countenance.  ‘You wretched tease! Which do you think to take to your bed?’  She queried, her cheeks refusing to flood russet with shame. ‘The ginger-bearded pauper or the Spaniard whose jaw drags along the floor?’  She took Helene’s wrist in her wet clasp, grinning.  ‘Perhaps our dear Cat might encourage you to spellbind the Infante.  It would keep his interest in check, stave off the English roses, just long enough for our pious Elisabeth to make headway… She might even learn a thing or two.’

[thlachesis]

Sonya Taaffe - id under cut

Ariadne in Queens

Step down from their soundstage, lady,

cut the lights, unmantle from the fog,

and tell me why you want to break your heart

between a hero and a hard place

when you could have a satyr?

The Met knows my credentials——

a red-figured lekythos

bright-eyed from the workshop of Hermonax

in the days of the Delian League,

only sometimes I knock a hat back over these sharp ears

and hitch some trousers over this horse’s ass

and take the night air

in this asphalt wildwood.

Lady, Andromache looked happier

eating the ash of Troy’s battleground,

Helen slowly taking up her weaving

at magnanimous Menelaos’ side.

The best wine-shop I drank in

burned with Peiraieus,

but I know a taverna on Ditmars

does a mean skordalia and a better tsipouro

and the nymphs of Astoria Park have seen it all.

I can put the vine-leaves back in your hair

in no time,

Dionysos’ gasp in your throat

and no regrets.

Take a cue from the theater,

even Euripides knew it——after tragedy,

the satyr play.

[thlachesis]

Héléne had only heard among the hot bed of gossip that the Dudley family had bartered for fame and prestige beneath the guiding hand of Robert Dudley, the Patriarch who had found himself within the palm of the Princess. She, who had no such qualm with social climbers due to her own career spent doing just that, didn’t bother to apparel to the man whom seemed quite dogged by his various exploits, and instead found herself coaxed towards the younger — the sweeter, who would be a breath of fresh air compared to the rest of the English court who had rotten breath, uneven teeth and unshaven cheeks. She Kismet Dudley, seemed as easily swayed as a dove would in the palm of a guiding hand — if she wanted to indulge in their influence, then it would be easy, but her sweetness seemed to bar Héléne from her true nature, one of venom and spite, but rather left the French woman tender in isolation, her hand already stroked to caress the back of Kismet’s soft hand. 

“But you can keep it, dear sweet thing, I didn’t mean for you to return it — well, no, I did. For it is a pleasure to see you again,” Héléne charmed, her voice as low as one could make it, her words left only for Kismet as her lips pricked into an all-knowing smile, her hand yet pressed against the other’s in a moment of the sincerest intimacy, her eyes staring into the Lady’s, the entire world put to a sudden halt in favour of that velveteen moment. “Oh? Was it Marie de France’s Bisclavret or Equitan that had you run back to its covers? I always had a fondness for the first, the mythology of the werewolf and his treacherous wife, a delight, for don’t we all know what it is to be such a woman?” She asked, releasing Kismet’s hand before folding her own together, her eyes flashed with invigoration, her teeth bared — as if to swallow the poor girl whole. “You must keep it, it is but a gift. In return, you must walk with me back to my chambers.”

the return of her family to hampton meant that kismet was far more jovial in the way that she held herself again, doting incessantly on her good sister and basking in the allowance of being her elder brother's shadow once more. yet, despite the shift in her schedule, kismet had devoted herself fiercely to the task of finishing the book that lady de limeuil had allowed her to borrow in an act of good faith. she devoured every word of it, reading till her candle burned too low or her eyes began to sting from the exertion upon them. after a few days, kismet had finished it in it's entirety, allowing her the excuse to seek out helene under the pretense of returning the borrow item, and certainly not because kismet desired to sneak another view of the beautiful woman. kismet would never deign to stoop as low as a foolish bird with a crush, peeking corners and bushes in the hopes of catching sight of the vision that had come from france's shores, to grace hampton with a stunning smile and breath taking sort of laugh. 

" lady helene," kismet greeted, having waited till she saw the other woman alone from the other ladies in waiting that attended catherine to approach her. there's a hint of comfortable familiarity that curls around her tongue, the faintest tint of pink to her cheeks as she ducked her head in polite greeting to the other woman. " i seek to return the novel that you bestowed upon me," in her hands was delicately clutched the aforementioned book, outstretched to be returned to the other. " please forgive me for not being swifter with my return, i was unable to help myself from rereading the last short story again."

closed starter for @thlachesis !

[thlachesis]

Where most of the courtiers were nothing but sons of Dukes, or if you were lucky, some distant relation of the King himself, none stood out more than the son of Spain. He glimmered as if caught by the sun, causing every single person who lingered to turn their necks in order to catch just a glimpse. Héléne, who was no more special than any other, saw him as soon as he entered — for he radiated something magnificent; not that there was any question or riddle why he did. He was the son of Mary Tudor, the usurped true Queen of England, and the King of Spain. Both as Holy and zealous as a good Catholic came. And so in that order, Héléne respected him in the same way she had been when first presented before the rulers of France in her first years at court. 

Though most of the maid of honour’s life was kept behind warped rumours and tattle-tales, most of the rumours that surrounded her were indeed one of truths. She had laid with the King of France as soon as she was able, henceforth sent to a convent where she had one of the many illegitimate children to be educated and taken by someone in the country. By that, she had proved herself a loyal French servant, thereafter installed as part of the de Medici court where she used her womanly vices to twist the knives of her Queen deep into unsuspecting backs. She had been married, that was known to almost anyone, and had been blessed with a son. But, both had died quickly, and so the slate was once again wiped clean to instead present Héléne as a piece upon the chess board. 

So, there was no stage fright when she met the Prince of Spain, for she had been touched by other souls of grandeur — that, and if a match was ever to be made between Spain and France to threaten the heretic English, then someone must scout the land. “Your Majesty,” she gasped, her bow just low enough to deepen the cut of her dress, the black of her eyes flickering up towards him for his audience — a dare then put on the table. “I am Héléne d’Halluin, on behalf of Caterina de Medici.” @felipaed

[thlachesis]

SONOYA MIZUNO as Lady Mysaria in HOUSE OF THE DRAGON (2022—)

I want an end to the savage use of children in Flea Bottom. They are forced to fight, and worse you Gold Cloaks take the bribes given to them to look away. An obscenity either tolerated or ignored by the crown. — 1x09 “The Green Council” dir. Clare Kilner

[thlachesis]

Another Protestant. That was what Héléne saw when faced with one of the new courtiers sent to England in some plea to have them seen all-powerful. She, clearly, saw little worth in the sister of a Duke, but she had made worst connections when slipping through the webs of this isle’s court, and so broke the line of admittance with a wavering hand, her eyes set upon the Cleves girl with the accuracy sought when riding among the hunt. With the fleur-de-lys embroidered upon her skirts, she approached, her smile pleasant — coating the curiosity that dripped from her tongue, a mirage of her true thoughts and feelings making that pinch of the English court their own. “You are a picture, how sweet the German fashion! It is far the better than the persons we find ourselves in, for the Boleyn Queen had stolen our Hood to make her own, the mimics!” Héléne smiled, coaxing forth a friendly stance, before taking to her glass of wine as the Iberian decorations remained dotted around the room in some sort of last hurrah. “Lady Cleves, I am one of the ladies serving de Medici, la reine Serpent. I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”@sisiofcleves

[thlachesis]

She had learned through whispers and gossip, a tactic often overlooked by many, that the few who had been sent from court but not to Dover during the King’s absence, consisted of three esteemed council men and an almost unknown, Lady Percy. Through inquiry she had mapped the House of Percy through tongue and ear, listening to the rumours that surrounded this ambitious, over-reaching family that seemed to extend their fingers to wrap finally around the King’s own ankles. 

Well, what did she expect? They were hedonists diverted from the one true faith, broken by the desire and lust of their previous King and the mother of the current. She had heard, whether it was true or not, that the parents had always been ones to sup at the feet of their masters, to breed their children into making further claims in the higher echelons of society. She had heard it as: one daughter for the King, a son for his table and another for reservation in case the first yet died. But, what did Héléne herself know of family? She was an orphan adopted by a step-father, with dead siblings for all but one who lived in the battlefields of Italy. She wasn’t one to judge on that front, but the faith and the ambition was quite enough for Héléne to draw her battle lines. 

With manipulation, she made sure to meet Lady Percy during the festivities that celebrated the Iberian royal family — an oddity, perhaps, if one was to muse on the idea of Mary Tudor as the only true claimant to the English throne. Steadying her trained precision, she approached, her blue and white visage matched with a similarly embroidered French Hood that veiled long, thick black hair. “You are not drinking, my Lady. May I tempt you with something? I have heard that if it was not for you, and your immeasurable talent, that English would be in quite a position,” Héléne charmed in English, her mother-tongue set aside. @unconqucred

[thlachesis]

England had brought little solace to a woman who had been born and bred among the exquisite luxuries of the French court. The only thing, it seemed, to appeal to Héléne was the certain chase of trying to discern some snippet of information to pass back to her step-sister or the Dowager Queen, who presided above her feeble son’s court with an amount of power previously unseen. She wore the fleur-de-lys upon her skirts, blue thread sewn into the off-shot ivories that she had come to wear not due to the mourning of both her husband and her legitimate child, but mostly because Héléne stubbornly and proudly thought it only a pretty contrast to set the tone of her skin. Having danced the merry jig in accordance to Iberian songs performed in celebration of the Spanish royal family’s reunion with their English cousins, Héléne went to linger with some others — bowing her head to whisper into the ears of influential men and women whilst plucking at heart strings to tune to her very need.

She had heard him before she had seen him, and wondered little over the true talent of a somewhat lower classed bard — for the gaggle of girls she found herself perched by would not stop singing the praises of the newly supported William Shakespeare; an apparent new favourite of the Princess, a thespian and a certain flavour of the women who were often met with balding, toothless men. Who would have blamed them then once they were met with a handsome young man? Even Héléne, who rarely ever fell folly to the desire of her heat, looked at him with curiosity. Unlike the others perhaps, she approached, breaking the sea of hangers-on who thought to curry favour with a man who may, if he was so lucky, influence the court itself. The French court had always been champions of art and culture, after all, and Héléne had never been the kind of girl to turn her nose up to any loose end.

“They say that England has unearthed a new gem, would you support such rumours?”

@bdwilliamshakes